


The Lessons of Life (Amount to Scar Tissue and Callus)

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kneeling verse, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Tampa Bay Lightning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In helping Jonathan deal with his injury, Steven comes to terms with his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lessons of Life (Amount to Scar Tissue and Callus)

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this is written in honor of Jonathan's much heralded NHL debut, so, yay, for that. It's also set in a mild AU where it's normal for rookies to kneel for veteran players.

“Most things break, including hearts. The lessons of life amount not to wisdom but to scar tissue and callus.”—Wallace Stegner, The Spectator Bird

The Lessons of Life (Amount to Scar Tissue and Callus) 

Studying Jonathan across the living room, Steven wondered if he had ever looked so young and nervous—like a fawn trapped in headlights on an interstate—during his rookie year. Probably he had, he supposed. It was most likely the universal expression of a junior struggling to break into the big leagues and asking himself if his game would translate, or if he would have to re-define himself in order to survive in the NHL, or, even more ignominious, not be able to hack it at all. 

Steven wasn’t worried for Jonathan, though, because he believed in Jonathan and just wished that Jonathan could have the same faith in himself, but that would come with experience and success. Half-baked, these words of assurance hovered on Steven’s tongue, but he didn’t want to speak them until they were fully formed for fear of saying the wrong thing—the thing that would rattle Jonathan’s confidence even more—so he remained silent until Jonathan, who was a pendulum perpetually in motion, could stand the quiet no more and finally moved his mouth instead of just tilting his head quizzically from side to side like a puppy seeking a treat and tapping a tattoo with his fingers against his palms. 

“What—“ Steven could almost hear the anaconda coiling in Jonathan’s throat, strangling his words, before Jonathan coughed, apparently having gathered the breath to erupt with a million questions, “do I do? What am I supposed to do? What do you want me to do? I mean, I’ve never done this before, obviously, so I don’t want to screw up.” 

“You can’t screw this up.” Steven flashed a smile that he hoped was a thousand watts of comfort and calm as he sank into a sofa and tossed a brocade pillow onto the Turkish carpet by his feet, prepared to shoo Trigger—his Swissy who still found it advantageous to feign an incapability to distinguish between furniture and chew toys—away if Trigger who, until now had been nudging at Jonathan’s hands to demand some affection and attention from the newcomer, took an interest in the pillow on the floor. “Just come over here and kneel on the pillow, all right?” 

As if on an invisible trampoline, Jonathan bounced from foot to foot but did not take so much as a tip-toe closer to the divan where Steven was sitting. It was as though he had forgotten that he had been the one to text Steven to ask whether he could come over to kneel on this day where they both were probably stir-crazy from knowing that they should be at training camp but needed the time off to recover from injuries. 

“Jo.” Feeling as if he were trying to persuade a wild mustang to eat oats from his palm and not give him a vicious kick, Steven gentled his tone even further and extended his hands in an unconscious gesture to demonstrate how empty of weapons they were. “I’m not going to hurt you, yell at you, or anything like that. You don’t have to be afraid of me.” 

“I know.” Stiffening his shoulders so he resembled a cardboard cutout more than flesh and blood, Jonathan walked over to the pillow and lowered himself to his knees without seeming to bend his body. Lifting his chin with the defiant determination that Steven was already coming to identify as emblematic of the little winger, Jonathan added, “I’m not scared of you or anybody.” 

Trying not to think of another fiery French Canadian with more heart and playmaking skills than size because it made him feel like he had just been run through a trash compactor, Steven ruffled Jonathan’s hair. “Of course not.” 

When he felt Jonathan jerk as if his fingers were electrically charged, Steven pulled his hand out of Jonathan’s mop of hair. Figuring that Jonathan must be another being to add to the long list of short people who deemed it demeaning to be tapped on the head like a pet, Steven tried to massage the tension out of Jonathan’s shoulders but discovered that the knots in the blades only grew with each ginger squeeze and stroke. 

“Just relax.” Steven’s fingers trailed over to knead the tight muscles at the back of Jonathan’s neck, and as he did so it hit him once again like a slap in the face how much Jonathan had changed in a year. He was pure lean sinew now with not a trace of baby fat to be seen, and every particle of his being was driven with a laser focus, so maybe no part of him could ever unwind. 

“Easier said than done,” muttered Jonathan, as if to voice Steven’s final musing. 

“If there’s anything I’m not doing that you want me to do or something I’m doing that you don’t want me to, just speak up.” Steven’s cheeks were burning like bonfires, and he wasn’t sure if it was the unwieldiness of the words that embarrassed him or the awkwardness associated with touching someone who kept tensing under his fingertips. “I don’t want to make this uncomfortable for you, but I can’t read your mind, either. I’m not a psychic.” 

“You might not be a psychic, but you’re the boss here.” Jonathan’s toes twisted around individual carpet fibers. “I’ve got to do whatever you want, and I know it, Stammer.” 

“No!” Steven’s denial was vehement enough that he could feel Jonathan’s flinch. Softening the sharp edges of his tone, Steven continued more quietly, cupping Jonathan’s chin in the heel of his hand, “Listen, this kneeling thing isn’t about me. It’s about helping you, so if there’s anything I can do to make you feel more at ease, I want to hear it.” 

Biting his lip like Trigger gnawing a wishbone , Jonathan appeared to contemplate this notion for a moment before shaking his head as though he were a horse attempting to dislodge a pesky fly. “Nah, I’m supposed to be the one who changes to suit you. That’s my job.” 

“Who told you that?” His forehead furrowing, Steven frowned, because it sure as hell hadn’t been him who had said anything that selfish to put such perverse pressure on the rookie. 

“Everyone.” Jonathan’s lips pressed together. “I don’t even have to read my own headlines to realize that.” 

“What’s funny about stuff everyone says is that nobody knows what the hell they’re talking about, Jo.” Steven smirked and tried not to recall how many times hearing Jonathan—who was as sly, slippery, and sneaky as an eel— offer a caustic chirp or seeing him perform one of his vintage dangles that left ankles shattered and jaws gaping had made his heart hurt with the memory of Marty, who had ultimately proven just as impossible to trap. After all, if it weighed Steven down to think of Jonathan as a miniature Marty, he could only imagine what sort of burden—like steel flippers attached to a scuba diver, probably—those expectations must be to Jonathan. “Draft day comparisons aren’t fair to anybody. Just be your own player, and everything else will figure itself out, I promise.” 

“I’m supposed to make you happy.” Jonathan’s eyes narrowed as they locked on Steven like a cat’s focusing on a mouse. “That’s what I was drafted to do, Stammer.” 

“You were drafted to be a franchise player,” corrected Steven, mild as an April breeze, and, risking another pat on Jonathan’s shoulder, he considered it progress when the younger man didn’t balk at the contact. “You’re an incredible talent, and the last thing I’d want to do is impede your development in any way, okay?” 

When Jonathan nodded but didn’t seem overwhelmingly convinced by this unassailable logic, Steven sighed. Only somebody as blind as a bat could have missed that Yzerman was performing the role of matchmaker—acquiring a playmaker to set up a sniper and a left shot to offset a righty—at last year’s draft. It was like an arranged marriage only with linemates, and he and Jonathan would just have to hope that the chemistry arose organically, because one day—perhaps in the not-so-foggy future—he and Jonathan would find themselves paired together on Tampa’s top line to score a gazillion goals and win countless Stanley Cup Championships. At least that would be the interpretation of every talking head in hockey media, which was simultaneously an encouraging and depressing idea. 

“I guess you’ve figured out that you’re stuck with me.” Steven decided not to beat around the bush when they both knew what hedge they were expected to crawl through together seasons without end. “You drew the short stick at the raffle, but we’ll just have to muddle through as best we can, learning how to merge with each other’s strengths and cover one another’s weaknesses like all the greatest line mates are supposed to do.” 

“I’ve got a busted finger.” Scowling, Jonathan rubbed at the sling encasing his fractured thumb, and Steven wasn’t too astonished by this abrupt transition in topic, since he was already discovering that Jonathan, whose mind was as swift and unpredictable as his hands, tended to converse in staccato puzzles where one piece didn’t obviously fit with the one that followed although there was usually some groove for connection if you bothered to search for the link. 

“I’ve got a bum leg.” Steven chuckled as his hand drifted across Jonathan’s shoulder blade to massage the coils out of his neck. “Don’t worry about it, Jo. It helps the senior citizens who flock down to Florida during the winter relate to us more—makes us more sympathetic sports guys.”

Too serious to be cheered or distracted by jokes, Jonathan shook his head and established through gritted teeth, “I hate missing training camp. I worked so hard during the summer that I don’t want to take a step back because of a stupid injury.” 

“You won’t.” Somehow having the eerie sensation that he was dismissing the doubts that confronted him every time he stared at his face in the mirror, Steven continued, uncertain whether he was speaking more for Jonathan’s benefit or his own, “Injuries are frustrating, since they always seem to happen when you’re on top of your game and playing your best hockey, but you’ve just got to stay positive, keep plugging away, and take time to rest your body even when every particle inside you is screaming to move. When you take time off, you may think that you’re being lazy, but the next day, you’ll feel the difference in a good way. You just have to be patient, because a large part of healing is just giving injuries time to get better.” 

His mind was so fixated on injuries that he didn’t even notice that his fingers had started to comb through Jonathan’s straggly hair, and he only recognized what he was doing when Jonathan, finally at ease, leaned his cheek against the jeans covering Steven’s knee. 

This proved to be too much for Trigger. Yowling a plea for attention and affection, the Swissy dropped his snout against Jonathan’s thigh. 

Clutching a tuft of Trigger’s fur as he petted the dog, Jonathan mumbled, “What if I get sent back to junior, Stammer?” 

As he kept carding through Jonathan’s hair, Steven answered in a flippant tone that he hoped made it plain that Jonathan’s fears were so off-base that they weren’t even in the stadium, “You’ll completely wreck the league with another hundred plus point season and break some of Mario’s scoring records. That’s the absolute worst that could happen to you, so, put that way, it’s not so terrible, is it?” 

“Everybody will say I’m a bust.” Jonathan’s jaw clenched like a vise as he again made reference to the vague masses that dominated everyone’s perception of themselves. “I don’t want to be a bust.” 

“Why not?” Steven arched an eyebrow and tried not to remember how much it had cut him to the core when Melrose had speculated on all the airwaves that he wasn’t ready for the NHL and that he would never succeed as a center in the best league on Earth. “I’m a bust, and it was getting kind of lonesome being one all by myself here in Tampa. I’d appreciate the company, to be honest.” 

“Thanks for trying to make me feel better but it’s working about as well as a lifeboat with a hole in the bottom.” Jonathan snorted. “You aren’t a bust.” 

“Neither are you.” Steven traced the shell of Jonathan’s ear. “Listen to me, Jo, you’re going to prove a ton of people wrong this year in the best possible way. You’ve just got to believe in yourself, and you’ll do amazing stuff.” 

Burrowing his cheek more deeply into the denim encasing Steven’s leg, Jonathan muttered, “Sometimes it’s hard to have confidence when your Proactiv doesn’t even work properly for you, and you have these giant pimples making mountain ranges all over your face.”

“Fair enough. Then I’ll believe for you.” Feeling rather touched by this frank confession as he remembered with a jolt the awkwardness of adolescence that had defined his life not too long ago, Steven rapped Jonathan lightly on the nose. “Is that good enough for you, huh?” 

“Oh, yeah.” A ghost of a grin flickered across Jonathan’s typically grim features. “You’ve actually made me feel better, Stammer. Label me very impressed and ship me to Tokyo in a cardboard box with no air holes.”


End file.
